PREVIOUSLY FROM THE TIME TRAVELER’S WIFE....
“Well, it seems that whoever it was might have purposely erased your story. ‘Cause it hasn’t just been overwritten once. It looks as if someone deliberately overwrote it a number of times.”
“What?” Lois exclaimed.
“Can you think of anyone who might do that?”
“Quite a few people, actually. But how would they have known...” Lois’ voice trailed off, causing Molly to glance back over her shoulder.
“I’ve got to go,” Lois said abruptly.
“Where?”
“My room!” Lois grabbed her coat, pulling it on as she continued to speak. “I left the evidence for my story there. If someone knew enough about what I was doing to erase my story, they’re probably looking for the evidence, too.” AND NOW...
Lois’ last words were spoken only an instant before the door closed behind her, leaving Molly staring at a closed door. With a slight shake of her head, Molly turned her attention back to the computer. If she hurried, there might still be time to get some sleep before she had to get up for her morning class, but was it possible she could still retrieve this story?
A moment later, she shut down the computer. She wasn’t sure it was even possible. And if it was, it would take a lot more time than would be helpful to Lois. Besides, it was almost three o’clock in the morning. Tomorrow, maybe. Or the day after, she’d address her mind to this quandary. Tonight she was just too tired.
* * * * * * * * *
June 1997
* * * * * * * * *
“What are you doing here, Clark?”
Clark looked around from where he’d been watching one of the televisions play the news quietly from its position, fixed high on the wall of the newsroom. He probably should still be in bed, but every time he closed his eyes all he could see was twisted and bloody bodies, all he could smell was a sickening mixture of gas, fire and death. No. Sleeping wasn’t an option, so here he was. He’d been trying to type up his account of the previous night’s accident, hoping that by doing so he could purge the incident from his mind, and instead had found himself caught up in the televison coverage of the accident, his mind filling in the pictures that the cameras hadn’t captured.
“I work here - or at least I did last time I checked,” he replied distractedly to the woman standing next to his desk.
“That’s not what I meant,” Linda said, her voice sounding appropriately sympathetic. “I just meant that after last night, no one was expecting you to come in this morning. You should be home in bed.” Her voice dropped to a teasing whisper. “In fact, just say the word and I’ll have you in bed faster than... Superman could rescue a cat from a tree.”
Linda King had been working at the Daily Planet now for the past few months. Apparently, she’d been stolen from the Washington Post to fill a gap in the city section for the Daily Planet. And since she’d been here, she’d become more and more... forward with him - a situation he was starting to find increasingly uncomfortable. Her hints that she wanted him were becoming less and less subtle.
His ears still partially focused on the television, he couldn’t help hearing New Troy’s Governor’s science advisor, Robert Stafford, begin to speak about the accident. Stafford was well known for his anti-Superman stance. Like a man unable to turn his eyes away from the scene of a car wreck, Clark slowly swivelled in the direction of the television.
“As you can see from this diagram here,” Stafford said, pointing at his sketch, which appeared to be professionally done, “if Superman had approached the train from this end, he would have stood a better chance of preventing further loss of life. That is one of my big problems with Superman. Allowing a creature as strong as Superman, with no knowledge of science, to assist at accidents such as this is just asking for disaster.”
“But surely Superman saved a lot of lives last night,” the commentator responded. “Even if he could have saved more.”
“No one is arguing that,” Stafford said. “All I’m saying is that if, instead of relying on Superman, we were to spend sufficient time and money equipping and preparing our emergency services, more lives would be saved.” Stafford shifted in his chair to look directly at the commentator. “Look, we all know that Superman is really Clark Kent. A reporter. And we simply can’t expect a reporter to do the job meant for a well-trained emergency worker or a doctor. I understand that there were some injuries last night that, if Superman had been a qualified medical doctor, could have been dealt with much more efficiently - sparing people from further injury. A reporter is simply not equipped to handle these types of emergencies and until he’s gone back to school, should he choose to do so, and taken the appropriate training and got the appropriate credentials, we should put a moratorium on his super activities.”
“Oh, poor baby,” Linda said as she began massaging Clark’s shoulders. “Don’t listen to them. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Clark moved to face her, as much to get her hands off his body as to address her directly. “Thanks, Linda. But maybe you’re right. Maybe I will just head back to bed. I’ll see you later.”
Without waiting for her to respond, he rose from his chair, grabbed his suit jacket and slipped it on as he headed towards the stairs. Was Stafford right? Did he really have the right to get involved in rescues for which he was woefully untrained? Was it possible that his presence was a hindrance to the development of better equipped emergency services? Was he serving the present only to jeopardize the future?
He wasn’t sure. All he knew was he couldn’t stand aside and do nothing when people were crying for help. He just couldn’t. Not as long as he could help them.
Did that mean he should go back to school, study medicine and engineering and everything else he might need to do his job as Superman? If only he had someone to talk to, to share these doubts and this pain with. If only he had... Lois.
As soon as he disappeared into the stairwell, he shed his clothes, slipped into the Superman suit and a moment later split the sky with a sonic boom. Fortunately, he missed Stafford’s response to his sudden disappearance when the sound of the sonic boom invaded the nearby television studio.
“Now, there’s another problem,” Stafford said. “Studies have been done on the effects of noise pollution on mental health which suggest...”
* * * * * * * * *
November 1987
* * * * * * * * *
Lois pushed open her door with trepidation. She’d locked it when she’d left. She was certain she had. That was not how she found it now.
She reached in and flicked on the light but didn’t enter. It was possible, even if not likely, that someone could still be inside. She might not exactly be known for taking the safe path in life, but she wasn’t an idiot.
“No,” she breathed when she finally got a good look at the place. Her room had been completely trashed. Forgetting all about her decision to be cautious, she rushed over to her bed, dropped to her knees and surveyed the now open footlocker she normally kept under her bed. Her normally locked footlocker. Only, the lock was now busted and... “It’s gone. It’s all gone,” she said in despair.
Now what did she do? She still had her taped interview with Cat, but without supporting evidence, she could hardly take it to Paul. How could this have happened? Maybe Cat was even in on it - get Lois out of her room, out of the sorority house, in order to find the evidence she had obtained. Maybe Cat’s story about the cheerleader getting kicked out of school was all part of the plot. Don’t give her the real story - give her something which would prove false in the event that they didn’t find the evidence. Discredit her when a partially untrue story was published.
It was over. Or... was it? Maybe there was another way to come at this story. Maybe if she could find out who had trashed her room, she could make them talk to avoid criminal charges.
Re-energized, Lois jumped to her feet and rushed back over to her desk, grabbing her phone book. Calling 911 didn’t seem right. After all, this wasn’t exactly an emergency - or not the type usually associated with a 911 call anyway. So... She grabbed her phone book and flipped through it until she found the number for the police station. A moment later, she was dialing her phone.
“You have reached the Metropolis Police Department, 12th Precinct.”
“Yes, my name is Lois Lane and I’m calling to report a...”
“Please hold.”
Immediately, Lois heard elevator music coming over the line.
She slammed the phone down in frustration. For a moment, she toyed with calling 911, but then rejected that idea. No. She would go down to the police station herself. It was what she should have done to begin with anyway. She would convince the police to come back here and dust for prints. And hadn’t she read something recently about blood and hair samples being used to place a person at the scene of a crime? What was it called again? DNA! That was it. She’d insist that they look for DNA evidence. And then, when she identified who had done this, she would nail their butts to her wall - right beside her poster signed by Norcross and Judd!
* * * * * * * * *
June 1997
* * * * * * * * *
The sun had set quite some time ago and the dim lighting in the newsroom testified to the fact that most of the staff had long since left for the day. Lit by the light coming off the computer monitor, Clark put the finishing touches on his story. With a sigh, he hit send to forward the story to the latest editor in chief of the Daily Planet - Preston Carpenter.
After Clark had flown himself out, he’d returned to his apartment, determined to get some sleep. But after waking only thirty minutes into his nap by a bone-chilling nightmare, he’d risen and turned on the television. The talking heads were still debating what he could have done better. Everything from which individuals he should have dealt with first to the damage he’d apparently done to the investigation into the causes of the accident due to his moving some of the rail cars during his rescue attempts. He’d yelled at the television that he’d had no choice - given that a woman had been trapped under one of the cars and would certainly have died there if he had not acted. People were even debating whether or not Superman should be prohibited from further rescues.
That was when he’d finally quit yelling at the television and come to the Planet - determined that he needed to present his side of the story to the public. He’d titled the article, ‘Why I need to help,’ and it was an defense for what he had done during the train accident and the reasons he couldn’t just stand by and not help in the future.
Having finally finished his article and sent it to the editor, he began the process of shutting down his computer.
“Kent, what the hell is this?”
Carpenter’s voice yelling from the doorway of his office caused Clark to look in his boss’ direction. The man was waving some pieces of paper at him.
There had been a series of editors hired by James Olson to replace Perry White since Perry had become mayor of Metropolis. The jury was still out on how long Carpenter would last. Could be he was the one who would survive - or he could go the way of his predecessors? Only time would tell.
“Sir?” Clark asked, rising from his desk. He had to admit he hoped that Carpenter was one of the short-term editors. After all, he didn’t particularly like Preston Carpenter’s management style. Carpenter wanted every little thing done his way and didn’t have much patience for anyone who did things a little bit differently - which, of course, meant that he had little tolerance for Clark aka Superman.
“This garbage you submitted on the fire. It’s not a story - it’s an editorial. The Daily Planet is not your personal forum for defending your actions. If there is an editorial to be written on your activities during the train accident, I’ll be the one to write it, not you. Your job is to write the news.”
Clark bit his tongue, stopping himself just in time from asking Carpenter if he planned to write such an editorial - knowing that if Carpenter did have an editorial in mind, he wasn’t likely to take Superman’s side in the argument. “Do you want me to write up the train accident then?” he asked instead, holding on to what was left of his temper as he turned to power his computer back up.
Carpenter snorted. “That story is old. Now, if you’d done it up first thing this morning, I might have been able to use it. But since you weren’t here this morning, I had to ask Eduardo to write it.”
“So do you want me to...”
“Just go home,” Carpenter said, his tone of voice sounding like an exasperated parent tired of rebuking a problem child. “Just be sure to be back here on time tomorrow morning ready to work for a change.”
Clark bristled, but rather than responding, he grabbed his jacket and began walking towards the elevators.
“If this behavior continues, Kent,” Carpenter continued to Clark’s back, “you might want to consider finding another job. I can’t use reporters I can’t depend on.”
Clark bit back his retort and instead, after a brief pause, continued walking. Right now, he just wanted to be anywhere other than where he was.
* * * * * * * * *
November 1987
* * * * * * * * *
Lois quickly brushed the freshly falling snow out of her hair as she stepped through the doors to the police station. It was only mid-November so why had the gods chosen tonight of all nights, when she was had to trudge through the weather, to send snow? The gods must have it in for her, or something. But then, what did they do other than toy with the lives of humans for their own amusement? This was simply further proof of that fact.
In the early morning hour, the police station was a madhouse. Hookers. Drunkards. Brigands. Addicts. Thieves. Bullies. All of the scoundrels who came out when darkness fell were represented at the police station as the sun threatened its first appearance of the day.
The contrast to the streets of the city was startling. All the night prowlers who had not attracted the attention of the police over the previous hours were now at home, safely tucked in bed as they slept off the effects of the night while those who were creatures of the day had not yet risen. Thus the streets were abandoned.
“Come on, honey,” a woman near Lois said. “Just forget the charges. I can make it worth your while.”
Lois glanced over to see the unimpressed police officer roll his eyes as he dragged a scantily dressed woman who looked as if she’d seen more than her fair share of hard times in handcuffs across the room.
“You’ve got the wrong man,” a man said, directing Lois’ attention over to another catch of the night, this one slightly bloody. “I was just defending myself.”
“Tell it to the judge,” another officer mumbled back as he pushed his capture into a hard plastic chair by the wall.
Lois stepped carefully through and around the throng of people until she reached the front desk where a bored looking officer sat.
“What can I do for you?” the woman officer asked without looking up from whatever she was writing.
“I need to report a crime,” Lois responded.
“Take one of the clip boards and fill out your complaint,” the woman said, still not bothering to look at Lois.
Lois stood there for a moment more. This wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to talk to someone, convince them that they needed to come back to her dorm room and gather evidence.
“Can’t help you unless you fill out a complaint,” the woman said, still not looking up from her work.
Lois only hesitated a moment more before taking one of the clipboards and turning to survey the room in hopes of finding a place to sit. Not spotting a place that wasn’t surrounded by people who made her nervous, she leaned against the wall, dug a pen out of her backpack and began to write.
* * * * * * * * *
The room was quiet. Lois glanced at the clock. She’d been sitting here now for more than two hours as police officers processed the various occupants of the room. Yet here she still sat. It had now been at least fifteen minutes since the last person had left - well, except for the officer still sitting behind the main counter.
Exasperated, she rose to her feet. Patience didn’t seem to be getting her anywhere fast. Maybe it was time to see if the squeaky wheel really did get the grease.
“Excuse me, Constable Gates,” Lois said, after glancing at the name plate in front of the woman at the counter. When the woman didn’t look up Lois silently growled. “Look,” she said, her voice suddenly sounding a little bit like her mother’s when she was angry. Lois hadn’t known until this moment that she even possessed such a voice.
Not that she’d never gotten mad before. In fact, she knew her temper was... explosive at best. And she knew she had a sarcastic side when pushed. But when working, she’d always tried to be courteous and professional. Since that didn’t seem to be working here... “I’m a victim of a crime. And I’ve been kept sitting here for over two hours now. So if you don’t mind, at least give me the courtesy of looking at me when I’m speaking to you. Otherwise, trust me when I say that you’re going to see your name on the front page of the Daily Planet and it won’t be for some heroic deed.”
She doubted she’d actually be able to manage that - that the Daily Planet would even care that she, a lowly journalism student, was left sitting in the police station all night. But this woman didn’t need to know that. Besides, she’d finally gotten the woman to look up from her work.
“That’s right,” Lois said. “I’m a reporter.” She crossed her fingers behind her back. Not exactly the truth, but not exactly a lie either. “So if you don’t want to find yourself having to answer all sorts of awkward questions about why the M.P.D. doesn’t care about the victims of crime, I’d suggest you get someone out here to speak to me pronto!”
* * * * * * * * *
Lois was barely given time to wonder if she should have been quite so aggressive when the door to the back opened and a man in a suit and tie entered the room. He scanned the room for a moment before his eyes settled on her. Then he looked slightly confused. One eyebrow raised slightly, he glanced towards Constable Gates.
Heat flooded Lois’ cheeks as she suddenly realized what must have happened. Obviously, Gates’ description of her had been colorful, probably making the officer... or whoever he was... expect someone who looked quite different.
She forced her feelings of embarrassment aside as she rose to her feet. After all, it seemed that the aggressive approach had worked. Besides, there had to be hundreds of officers in Metropolis. What were the chances that she’d ever run into this particular one again?
“I assume you’re Lois Lane?” the man said as he approached Lois. He sounded almost amused, or would have if he hadn’t sounded so morose - although before she heard him speak, she wasn’t sure she would have believed those two sounds could go together. “I’m Detective Bill Henderson. I take it you have a complaint.”
Lois opened her mouth to object when she suddenly changed her mind. Maybe she could use this to her advantage. “Other than having to sit in a police station half the night to report a break in, not a one,” Lois responded, surprising an almost grin out of the Detective. “But you can make it up to me.”
“How’s that?” Henderson replied, sounding intrigued.
“I need you to send a team back to my room to dust for prints and look for DNA evidence. It’s crucial I know who trashed my room.”
“Sorry. No can do. We can put word out so that if anything stolen is pawned, we might find it again, but that’s about it.”
“What?” Lois gasped. “You’re the police. It’s your job to find the culprits. If you only do half a job...”
“Talk to city counsel. Increase our staff. And then maybe...” Henderson shrugged. “But like I said, we can send a word out to the pawn shops if you’d like to make a list of things that were stolen. You’d be surprised how often we get results that way.”
“They aren’t going to be pawning the things they stole,” Lois objected, almost livid now. “They stole my evidence for what would have been the biggest story to ever be published in the Ink and Quill! You’re in on it, aren’t you? You don’t care if NTU football players write their own exams just as long as they win the Sugar Bowl for Metropolis!”
“The Ink and Quill? The university paper?” Henderson asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you said you worked for the Daily Planet.”
Lois blushed, his accusation instantly cutting across her anger. “I never actually said I worked for the Daily Planet. I said I was a reporter and that the Daily Planet might be interested in...” Her voice trailed off when she observed a slight crinkling around Henderson’s eyes. He found this funny. Immediately, her anger resurfaced. “Although, I’m sure they would be interested to discover that the Metropolis Police Department isn’t interested in doing everything they can to catch criminals, Detective.”
The smile around Henderson’s eyes faded. “Ms. Lane, why don’t you come with me?” he said. When she gave him a suspicious look, he gestured towards the door he had entered through. Cautiously, she followed as he led her into the back of the station.
* * * * * * * * *
Lois sat down in a chair beside a desk over-flowing with file folders and looked at the organized confusion going on around her. At least, she hoped it was organized because it sure was confusing. Henderson had disappeared after directing her to a chair. When he returned a few minutes later, she immediately spoke.
“So why am I here, Detective, if you don’t plan on properly investigating the break in of my room?”
“I wanted you to see this.” He handed her a single piece of paper.
She looked at it for a moment before looking back up at Henderson.
“So there have been six murders this past year. What does that...”
“Those are the statistics for last night.”
Her mouth fell open. “Last night...” she gasped, looking back at the paper. “There were six murders, ten rapes, two hundred and seventy robberies, a hundred and twenty felony assaults, three hundred thirty four burglaries...” Her voice trailed off and she looked up at the Detective once again.
“See that officer over there,” he said, pointing over Lois’ shoulder.
Lois glanced over to see a middle-aged officer rummaging around on his desk.
“He’s on his way over to Metropolis General to try to interview a young woman who was gang raped last night. She’s currently fighting for her life at Metropolis General and we’re desperately hoping to get a statement from her that will help us identify the culprits in case she dies. And that man...”
Lois again looked in the direction Henderson was pointing.
“He watched his grandson get stabbed. Twelve years old. Just walking down the street with his grandfather when four youths came out of nowhere and demanded all their money, stabbing the boy when they weren’t satisfied that they had gotten enough. Fortunately, the boy is going to survive, but it was just dumb luck that the attackers didn’t hit any vital organs. And see her...”
Again, Lois’ gaze followed the direction of Henderson’s finger.
“Her husband was killed. We think he surprised a burglar. She was upstairs sleeping at the time. Only discovered it when she woke around three o’clock in the morning and realized he wasn’t in bed with her. So if you want to write a story complaining that we had insufficient resources to dust your room for prints and collect DNA evidence when all that was stolen was a bit of evidence you needed for a story you’re working on, be my guest.”
* * * * * * * * *
When Lois stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the police station sometime later, she felt as if she was seeing things in a new light. The stories Henderson had shared with her, just about one night in the big city, had both humbled and horrified her. She looked up at the buildings that were lit by the morning sun and swore that she would devote her life to making this city a better place. Henderson might not have had the resources to send a forensic team over to her room, but there was nothing to stop her from finding out who had taken her evidence and getting it back. She could start, in her own small way, to clean up whatever corruption she could uncover. And that started with corrupt university coaches and players who were cheating to get ahead.
With new determination in her step, she walked down the steps of the police station and turned towards the bus stop.
* * * * * * * * *
Through the window next to his desk, Henderson watched the young woman as she waited for the bus. She’d come in here spitting vinegar. Spirit and determination in equal measure. Yet when confronted with the reality of the situation, she’d had the courage and intelligence to adjust her perspective almost immediately.
He liked her. And he had a sneaking suspicion he’d be seeing a lot more of her in the future. He’d have to keep his eyes open. He had no doubt that she’d be making an appearance on the Daily Planet staff in the not-too-distant future. Life in Metropolis was bound to get very, very interesting when she did. In fact, maybe...
Reaching over, he picked up the phone to place a call to an old friend. A reporter he’d first met during his tour of duty in Nam. The now editor of the Daily Planet.
“Perry White, please. Tell him Bill Henderson is calling.”
* * * * * * * * *
June 1997
* * * * * * * * *
Clark collapsed back onto his couch in exhaustion. The sun was already making an appearance and he would have to be in the newsroom in a couple of hours, ready to work, if Carpenter was to be taken seriously.
Still, what was the point? Of anything?
He’d been out all night, performing rescue after rescue. He’d stopped two attempted murders, three attempted rapes, twenty four robberies and... he wasn’t sure how many burglaries and he knew he hadn’t even made a dent in the crime in Metropolis.
He was just one man. One very tired and discouraged man. A man without any support system. So why would he think he could even begin to turn things around - make things better?
‘One man can’t really make a difference... no matter what kind of powers he has.’
‘I know things are different here. I know you’re different. But trust me... powers or no powers, one man can change the world.’
The conversation he’d had with the Lois from the other dimension popped into his head. She’d sounded so confident, so sure. And he’d gotten caught up in her vision. But she had been wrong. He couldn’t make a difference. And if she were here right now, he’d tell her exactly that.
But she wasn’t here. Nor was his own Lois. That was the problem. What he wouldn’t give right now for one of her pep talks, for one indication from her that whatever he could do, it was enough.
His eyes of their own volition opened and swept the room until they landed on his copy of HG Wells’ Time Machine.
* * * * * * * * *
He was just looking, he assured himself. Just giving in to his curiosity to see what made Well’s time machine tick. Nothing more than that. He stared at the blueprints for a moment before setting them on his coffee table, inadvertently knocking over a cup of cold coffee.
As quickly as possible, he grabbed up the plans for the time travel machine and began cleaning up the spill. When he looked back at the blueprints, he felt panic rising in his chest.
“No!”
Grabbing his cloth, he began dabbing at the plans. When he finally stopped, he breathed a sigh of relief. They were still legible - or well, mostly legible. There was one section that was a little difficult to decipher, but he thought he could understand it well enough.
Not that he was going to use it, of course. He was just looking.
“Help, Superman!”
The sound of a terrified woman’s voice cut through his mussing. No. No, please. He couldn’t do it. He just... couldn’t. He couldn’t take one more rescue, one more disaster, one more case of human suffering. He couldn’t do this alone. No one could be expected to and maintain his sanity.
A moment later, he was out the door and on his way to help. The sound of a gun firing sent terror rolling through his belly as he increased his speed. When he arrived, the woman was already dead.
* * * * * * * * *
“Kent, are you there?”
The sound of Carpenter’s voice coming over the answering machine didn’t even phase Clark as he stared at the newly constructed time machine. He’d just wanted to see if it could be done. He wasn’t actually planning on using it. After all, Wells was right. Tinkering with the past was simply far too dangerous.
“If your butt isn’t in here in the next twenty minutes, don’t bother coming in at all!” Carpenter continued into the machine.
There was no thought involved when Clark suddenly found himself packing a couple of duffle bags and tossing them into the machine before throwing on his black leather jacket. Taking a seat, he began pressing buttons.
He needed her. It was as simple as that. Besides, Wells had said that the further one went back in time to make changes, the bigger the ripples to the time line. But surely, if he just went back four years, to a time a few days before her ill-fated trip to the Congo, the changes wouldn’t be all that drastic to anyone except him. Yes, a few days was all he needed. He could help her get the Congo story without going to the Congo. He’d do that, and then he’d come home. And no one would know the difference - well, except for him. His world would suddenly make sense again.
With a sudden flash of light, the world around him faded.
* * * * * * * * *
November 1987
* * * * * * * * *
Lois checked her watch as she stepped off the bus and onto the grounds of the university. Nine ten. Great. Not only was she tired and frustrated from a night spent trying to track down her story, but now she had missed the deadline for getting stories submitted to the Ink and Quill and... she was late for class! Could this day get any worse?
She took off at a jog towards her class. Surely someone would let her borrow some paper to take notes. If not, she could always use the ever present reporter’s notebook she carried in her backpack.
And, really, it wasn’t as if any of the other reporters had any inkling about her story. So it wasn’t as if she was in danger of being scooped. She could always get the story in next week’s edition once she tracked down the missing evidence. It would just take a whole lot more work and some creative thinking on her part. But then, work had never scared Lois and creative thinking was her specialty. Keeping hold of her new found optimism, she increased her pace, darting around slower moving students to get to class.
* * * * * * * * *
Lois was exhausted. Totally, completely and utterly exhausted. What had ever possessed her to schedule three early morning classes back to back?
No. She knew what had lead to that decision. She’d wanted to keep her afternoons free to pursue stories.
But today, it had been almost too much. She needed to get back to the dorm. To take a nap before she turned to the problem of recreating her story. Oh, darn. She’d forgotten. She was supposed to go this afternoon to help Molly and the others prepare for the party. Maybe she’d call and see if she could come in a bit later so that she could have a nap first. Otherwise, there was no way she was going to make it through tonight’s party. And given the number of sorority events she’d missed lately, she could hardly skip this party, too.
Passing by a newspaper dispenser for the Ink and Quill, she absently picked up the latest edition. Yawning, she looked at the front page.
Suddenly, she was wide awake.
TO BE CONTINUED...
ML
